


All These Long Years

by Verecunda



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drabble Sequence, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 07:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19459747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: There is nothing in Britain for Lancelot to love. He's determined.





	All These Long Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sasha_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/gifts).



> The fort in the film doesn’t seem to have a name, so I’ve called it Camboglanna, the original name of Castlesteads fort, which has been suggested as a candidate for the “real” Camelot. (Or possibly Camlann - take your pick!)

Camboglanna is a strange place, Lancelot thinks when he first sees it, almost more town than fort. Perhaps in the heart of the Empire the legions continue to fight their Emperors’ wars in stern, straight-edged formation; but here at the edge of the world, Hadrian’s Wall is manned by a mongrel collection of auxiliaries drawn from whatever rough corners Rome can scrape them from, and the line between fort and village, soldier and civilian, Roman and native, has grown increasingly blurred down the generations. 

But whatever Camboglanna might be, it’s not home, and there’s nothing to hold his heart here. 

-

The boy is noticeable even among all the other recruits, dark-haired and serious. He seems an unlikely sort of cavalryman, and not only because he’s one of the few volunteers among the conscripted Sarmatians. There’s something about him - some hidden intensity - that Lancelot can’t quite put his finger on. 

Later, he learns his name: Lucius Artorius Castus - or more commonly, Arthur, his name in the British tongue. His father was a former commander of the fort, they say, and the young Artorius is set to follow in his footsteps. A thorough Roman. 

Lancelot is at once resolved to hate him.

-

They’re only boys, scarcely old enough to shave, but life in the steppes was harsh, so most already know their way around a blade. The British boys, too, for the frontier is dangerous country. 

Lancelot finds himself sparring with Arthur on the parade ground, swinging the heavy wooden practice swords between them. Feint, clash, counter, parry… their steps flow like a mill race, and it’s uncanny, almost frightening, how closely their minds seem to run—

—until Arthur gets past his defences, and Lancelot ends up sprawled on his arse.

“Well fought,” he says afterwards. His lip curls. “For a Roman.” 

-

It’s no surprise that Arthur rises swiftly through the ranks. His father once commanded here, and he has some uncle or other down in Londinium. That’s the Roman way, after all. Lancelot sneers in private with the others, and tries to ignore the persistent gossip of how the newly-minted Decurion Artorius champions his motley lot of knights at every turn, giving the commander no peace when the pay is in arrears (again), or when the army suppliers have tried to palm degraded stock off on them. 

That’s _not_ the Roman way. Despite himself, Lancelot finds this talk impossible to ignore. 

-

The Woads burst screaming from the cover of the woods, and in an instant the tribune’s escort is surrounded. Through the chaos of blood and steel, Lancelot glimpses the blue giant bearing down on Arthur, sees Arthur turn — half a heartbeat too late, and without thinking, he hurls himself through the fray to Arthur’s side, burying one sword in the attacker’s chest. 

Afterwards, panting, he and Arthur stare at each other. Then Arthur smiles, a brief, wholehearted flash of gratitude.

“My thanks to you, Lancelot.”

And suddenly, Lancelot is grinning back. “And you thought I was just a pretty face.” 

-

Some miles from Camboglanna, the Wall climbs a rugged crag. From here, the land falls away southwards in wild folds of moorland, bleakly beautiful and swept raw by the wind. If he turns his back to the Wall, Lancelot can almost - _almost_ \- pretend he’s back in the steppes of home. He and Arthur usually ride out here when they can be spared from their duties, and it’s when he’s sitting here, in this faint echo of home, with Arthur at his side as they talk of freedom and the future, that Lancelot - with some alarm - feels something close to contentment. 

-

He doesn’t know what makes him do it, the first time. Frustration, perhaps. His eternal frustration at his own captivity. Frustration with Arthur, at his insistence on forever denying himself. He’s the only one of them with the freedom to go after what he wants, yet he never does. 

It’s up to Lancelot then and, next thing he knows, he has Arthur by his cloak-rings against the granary wall, and the kiss is hard and hungry between them. 

Arthur, at first, is frozen with shock. Then he’s kissing back, grasping Lancelot roughly to him, taking something for himself at last. 

-

“It’s you they fight for, you know, not Rome.” He smirks. “Ever thought about setting yourself up as Emperor here? Plenty have done it before.” 

The joke is old enough between them that Arthur only smiles now. “And none of them lasted very long.”

“Shame. Bors had his heart set on being consul.” He smiles, then presses on, quite serious now: “Our duty to Rome is forced on us, but for _you_ , Arthur, the men would follow you straight to Hades if you gave the word.”

Arthur looks at him: searching, somehow cautious. “And you?”

“Further still. You know that.” 

-

Rain drums heavily on the roof tiles outside, but inside, the commander’s room is a cocoon of warmth, and the lamplight is soft, a golden sheen across their skin as they kiss and move together. 

Only when they’re together like this is Arthur wholly unguarded, free to be himself alone. Here he is not Rome’s, or God’s; he is only Lancelot’s, and Lancelot takes an almost savage joy in drawing the desire - the honest _need_ \- out of him.

“Lancelot…” The whisper pierces his heart, and he answers with the closest thing to a prayer he has ever uttered:

“Arthur. _Arthur_.”

-

They stare at the great round table that now fills the hall, and Arthur smiles. 

“We are a brotherhood, equals before God. Let this table bear witness to that.”

His eyes shine with his vision of a better world, and the others roar their approval. Only Lancelot is silent.

One day, he thinks, Rome will find them out here. It will descend on what they’ve built, tear the veil away, and reveal its true hideous face at last.

What Arthur will do then, he can’t imagine. Only one thing he does know: he will not let Arthur face it alone.


End file.
